on brothers and cats
by Shiluette
Summary: In which Keigo meets Ryoga, who is overly protective and hostile towards his younger brother. Faux-incest and misunderstandings ensue as Keigo tries to understand the enigma that is Echizen Ryoga. Atoryo.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: Oh wow, I wrote this piece about three years ago and never posted it, so here I am three years too late…. It's a relatively short two-part piece; I just need to tidy out the conclusion for this.

Also, not related to the canon (not by much; the whole Shin-Tenipuri didn't happen).

/

Keigo fancied he knew by now what really riled Echizen up most of the time during any time of the day. He long ago accepted the fact that he was second-best to Karupin, and he might also be downgraded by Ponta if he wasn't careful. He knew Echizen hated midnight calls, irritating voice messages, and cold verbal attacks that didn't really do anything for the either of them (mostly for Keigo).

But this was a first.

"I'm serious, Monkey King," Ryoma was saying now, his voice tense and a bit pitched-high, his tennis bag shouldered stiffly on his left shoulder and his cap missing. He had scowled when Keigo had so generously dropped by Seigaku High to pick the brat up, and the brat had the nerve yet again to just ignore his silver Bentley parked in front of the school gates. Fortunately, Keigo knew by now that a screeching and insistent honk from his driver would make Ryoma lower his eyes and dive into the car seat quietly, if only to avoid any fusses. Oh, how time changed all pretentions of probabilities.

"I don't see what the fuss is about," Keigo shot back, his eyes not really focused on the second year but more on his laptop, typing away on the last few pages of his report, "Really now. Do we have to go through this every time I decided to drop by your house? Our courts are renovating at the moment."

"It's not that," Ryoma snapped, and his tennis bad now shifted from his shoulder to drop hastily on the car floor. His hazel eyes narrowed and Keigo felt the full burn of them on his face. "Surely not _all_ of them."

"All of them," Keigo affirmed. Well, maybe not all of them, but the brat didn't have to know that.

Ryoma sighed, and crossed his arms. "Well, still no. We could go to the street courts."

This time is was Keigo's turn to be obnoxious and roll his eyes. "I'm sure we could, except I'm not really dressed to play tennis right now impromptu. Neither are you. We need somewhere to change."

"We could—" Ryoma started but Keigo cut him short.

"Here's what we could do. We could skip out all the options and decided to play in your courts, and I'll leave before any of your family members come back. No negotiations."

Ryoma's scowl became even more pronounced. "No," he snapped.

Keigo finally sighed and looked over at the brat to tell him that he was being impossible—except that he realized immediately that Ryoma was on the verge of twitching. "Oi," Keigo said, amused now, "Don't tell me you're nervous."

"I'm not nervous." Ryoma's scowl became even more pronounced, which meant that he was lying. Keigo looked on with growing amusement.

"Hmmm? And here I thought we already passed the lovebird stage," he drawled, dodging a kick aimed at him. Ryoma seethed.

"It's not—what—I—argh." Ryoma waved a hand as if to fly away all the absurd notions that Keigo might have had and turned his head away from Keigo. "Whatever."

Now that was certainly strange. Ryoma never had fumbled on his words, not even during their first weeks of dating. Even after their first make out he hadn't been this flustered. Forget flustered, he had impatiently buttoned he shirt again and dragged Keigo out for another match. Something was up.

But he could wait.

/

Ryoma's tension didn't abate even as they were walking up the front steps of the Echizen household. By now, Keigo knew almost every room of this house, and as "common" as Keigo had teased Ryoma about it, he knew that the Japanese-Western fusion house was anything but common. Owning a tennis court despite the rising real estate values proved that.

"I really don't think that this is a good idea," Ryoma spoke out, his voice almost a high-pitched voice that was barely audible to Keigo's ears, If it hadn't been grating at him for the past fifteen minutes, he would have thought it cute. Instead, Keigo rolled his eyes and held out his hand. "The keys."

"I—"

"_Keys_, Echizen."

The surname was what did it. Ryoma scowled at him again but gave them to Keigo, his hands hesitating at the last minute. Keigo snatched them away. Ryoma then did something even more nonsensical: he backed off the door, glancing warily at it as if it might bite. Keigo felt now was the time to feel perhaps a bit offended. He rolled his eyes and thrust the keys into the keyhole, muttering about wrongly victimized minds that hallucinated.

He turned on the knob.

"CHIBISUKE!"

Keigo barely had time to react when he hastily moved over as a man shot out of the house and upon spotting Ryoma, tackled him to the ground. Ryoma yelped and threw the tennis bag in front of him for protection, but the man hit it aside as if it were a pillow.

"Ouch, lettgo! Lettgo, asshole!"

The man seemed to be, as Keigo took a closer look, almost the same age as Keigo, if not a few years older, with jet black hair and ruby-black eyes. He looked almost like Ryoma, except that his eyes were sharper and more calculating, with a taller stature, and a leer.

That was when the person noticed Keigo awkwardly standing there. "Oi, chibisuke, who's this?"

Ryoma, giving up all hopes of being freed, just glared at his captor and crossed his arms. He was avoiding Keigo's eyes.

Well, this was certainly interesting.

/

"You still haven't introduced me to him, chibi." After a bit of fumbling and more tousling up of Ryoma's hair, they were now all seated on the kitchen table, save Ryoma, who was feeding Karupin and ignoring both of them.

Ryoma grunted.

"Oi, chibisuke," the man whined (Keigo refrained himself from cringing), "That's not very polite, you know."

The man vaguely, just vaguely reminded Keigo of that annoying Momoshiro, who wouldn't shut his damn mouth. Ryoma, feeling the strain of the whine, decided to speak something coherent.

"This is Atobe," he said stiffly. Keigo noticed that he didn't call him Keigo, or how they were related. Not that it mattered, but his surname felt very strange on Ryoma's tongue.

"Hehhhhh? Atobe, huh?" the man pretended to ponder over him for a few minutes, and Keigo couldn't help but notice how those eyes took up a new sharp look as he scanned Keigo up and down. "Oi, chibi, not going to introduce me to this Atobe?"

Ryoma rolled his eyes. "Atobe, this is..." he seemed to falter on the last part but plunged on. "…Ryoga. My brother."

"Nice to meet you," Ryoga said lazily, his hands resting on his back, not taking eyes off Keigo.

Keigo had no choice but to meet those eyes. "The feeling is mutual," he said a bit coolly.

/

Ryoga, Keigo soon figured, was nothing like Ryoma in any possible way. He was loud, he was lewd, and he was clever. And apparently, the bastard was interested in incestuous voyeurism tendencies.

"Ryommmmma," Ryoga called out, his chair leaning back dangerously, not taking his eyes of Ryoma for the past fifteen minutes. "Come over here." He crooked a finger towards the boy, and when Ryoma refused to budge from his position against the kitchen counter, Ryoga sighed dramatically and rose up, his chair making a thudding sound. "Chibisuke, chibisuke," Ryoga tsked, a predatory smirk on his lips as Ryoma crossed his arms and glared, "Play nice." He casually strutted near the younger boy, and Keigo could see that Ryoma was doing his best to not bolt away. When he got close of grabbing range, Ryoga instead sneaked an arm around Ryoma's waist and pulled him close. Ryoma's eyes grew wide—clearly he hadn't been expecting that—and opened his mouth to retort something back when Ryoga dragged the younger boy back to his original seat and sat Ryoma on his lap. The nerve.

Ryoma began to turn an interesting shade of red. "Asshole," he snapped, trying to twist away with no avail; Keigo could see the hold getting tighter, "Lettgo!"

Ryoga just hmmed, resting his chin on Ryoma's shoulder and looking over at Keigo with feigned disinterest. Keigo had the most uncomfortable feeling he was being tested on something.

"You never told me, chibisuke," Ryoga purred, his mouth nuzzling his way up Ryoma's neck; Ryoma shuddered, "Why you brought this Atobe guy over. And here I was, all alone and lonely, waiting _so_ patiently for your return—" and without waiting for Ryoma's reply, he let his tongue lick over the nape of Ryoma's neck. Keigo would have convinced himself it was an accidental slip of the tongue, except the bastard was looking right at him and smirking. As if he knew what was going on Keigo's mind.

Ryoma's face grew even redder. Even Keigo had yet to see that shade of brilliant hue. He felt a pang of….something. Should he even be jealous of a brother?

"Oh, fuck off," Ryoma grumbled, giving up on all hopes of being free. He still didn't meet his eyes with Keigo. "He just came to play tennis, that's all."

"Ah. A tennis player now?" Ryoga mocked with fake interest; his hand was now playing with the buttons of Ryoma's shirt. _Calmness_, Keigo mentally restrained, _peace, Keigo. Peace._ "I've told you time and time again, you're wasting your life with this sport. You should listen to your big brother once in a while, you know."

"Whatever," Ryoma muttered, swatting away the hand that was trying to get inside his clothes. Keigo felt like covering his eyes. Or more preferably, grabbing Ryoma by the hand and kiss him hungrily in front of his brother…..no. Keigo was a better man than this Ryoga. He maintained his impassiveness.

"But you know," Ryoga continued, still nuzzling Ryoma's neck and breathing down the boy's ear, "Strange. If that guy's the heir to that hotshot Atobe Corporation, he should have any tennis court at his beck and call, shouldn't he?" It was a bare whisper, but Keigo could hear the underlying message behind it. Keigo twitched.

Ryoma bit his lip.

/

When Keigo excused himself as soon as he entered the Echizen household the day before, he wanted some answers. That curiosity led him here, as he sat on his armchair, hesitating over a file that he promised Ryoma that he would never do. Researching about his family background.

Seeing how the Atobe Corporation had the most extensive information networking system in Japan and how Echizen Nanjiroh was one of the most controversial figures of the last decade, there was undoubtedly a massive wave of media coverage about Nanjiroh's family. Ryoma had made Keigo promise to not go digging for information.

"If you want to know something, just ask," Ryoma had said. And Keigo had rolled his eyes and said that he wasn't going to waste precious networking skills just to pry a family history about an anti-social boy anyhow.

But clearly, Ryoma had never told him about siblings.

Keigo quickly did a brief scan on all the media coverage about Nanjiroh that didn't involve latest tennis wins, and came up with the news of Ryoma's birth—_Echizen Nanjiroh, From Tennis Sensation to Father_—with the follow up of his retirement news. There was no evidence of Ryoga.

Keigo frowned.

/

Keigo crossed his arms as he waited in front of the tennis gates, tapping his foot impatiently. The students were filing out now, and he could feel all the stares that he was getting. He had always preferred the comforts inside of his car while waiting for Ryoma to come trudging out, but…today was different.

Keigo finally spotted Ryoma coming out, his tennis bag drooping on his shoulders, his feet lagging behind, Clearly he wanted to avoid Keigo as much as Keigo wanted some answers. Keigo patiently waited for Ryoma to walk those last steps up to him when he noticed something hidden on Ryoma's neck. It was faint and red, but it was the size of a small oval, and it was artistically hidden with black hair.

Keigo stared.

/

"A hickey," Keigo said, dumbfounded, not knowing if he should feel angry or again, even jealous. He brushed away the locks hiding the hickey as soon as they were inside the car and stared at the red hickey that was, now exposed, bigger than Keigo had thought. "A hickey."

Ryoma didn't say anything, just pressed his lips together and looked at Keigo warily without meeting his eyes. He shrugged.

"Your brother leaves you a hickey, and you can't think of anything to say?" Keigo said indignantly. Ryoma made a small irritated gesture and tried to wave Keigo's hand away. Keigo grabbed it and forced Ryoma to turn towards him.

"Ryoma," Keigo said. Warningly. Coldly.

Ryoma finally met Keigo's eyes. Keigo was surprised that it had none of the embarrassment or guilt Keigo expected to form. "Let it go," Ryoma said, and didn't say anything for the rest of the ride.

Keigo bit his lips hard and ordered his chauffeur to drive them not to the usual route of Echizen's house, but to his own apartment. Ryoma didn't protest.

/

They didn't even close the door when Keigo grabbed Ryoma's wrist and half-carried the boy to the living room couch.

"Wait—wait!" Ryoma said, trying to walk with his legs, but Keigo dragged him and threw him on the grey leather sofa. Ryoma let out a small yelp, but Keigo didn't take heed of that as he almost tore the Seigaku blazer off him.

"Wait—Keigo, Keigo!" Ryoma struggled violently, and Keigo felt a small twinge of anger he didn't feel the day before. Ryoma hadn't tried to push Ryoga away like this, hadn't resisted when Ryoga had fondled him, breathed down on him, kissed him—

_Mine._

His lips smothered the boy's protests as he took off his own jacket and tossed it carelessly on the floor. He grabbed the front of Ryoma's white shirt and not taking heed of the buttons, ripped the opening with one clear stroke. The buttons bounced off the sofa and onto the floor, rolling their way around corners.

Hickeys. More of them.

Keigo had to stop his hands from moving forward, as his eyes took on Ryoma's bare torso, save for the few red marks littered. One was especially red, the one right near his left nip—

Ryoma flushed when Keigo slowly took his eyes off Ryoma's chest and looked at him instead.

"It's not…what you think," Ryoma tried to say weakly, but Keigo just traced the red marks, one by one, with a finger. He felt numb, all his previous rage gone. Ryoma flinched, but stayed docile as Keigo circled that one particular hickey incessantly without a word.

This time, it was Keigo who wouldn't meet Ryoma's eyes.

/

"Who is he," Keigo asked quietly, once he rummaged over his closet and threw Ryoma a faded black T-shirt. Ryoma caught it without a word and covered himself. It took him a few ore minutes before he could open his mouth.

"My brother," Ryoma said dryly, running his fingers though his hair.

"Are you telling me that your brother is into incest and you're indulging him?" Keigo shot back coldly, his anger threatening to burst out again.

Ryoma sighed. And looked at the wall, the windows, the ceiling, where he decided would be the best place to focus his eyes. "He's…..he's not really related," he mumbled.

_Obviously_, Keigo wanted to snap, but barely refrained himself. Barely. "Yes," Keigo said instead, rubbing his fingers on his forehead," I gathered that much."

"He's….he's a bastard my old man had before he married mom. I don't know the exact details, but….." Ryoma shrugged and focused his gaze even more determinedly to the ceiling. "He lived with us before. And he's been living in America. Going to college. He played tennis too, but he pretty much got tired of it and now he's some informant or something."

"Or something," Keigo echoed flatly.

"I really don't know," Ryoma snapped, "Look, he just crashed last week, and I was about to tell you—"

"Were you?"

Ryoma faltered on that, and he prolonged the silence before he heaved a grunt. "Maybe. Maybe not," he muttered, "He isn't exactly the easiest person to introduce."

"I could see that," Keigo observed, almost ready to forgive him since it was making Ryoma uncomfortably twitchy. "And the…..molesting?" he tried lightly. Ryoma twitched again.

""s nothing," he mumbled. Keigo felt his inner peace wearing thin again.

"Nothing," he said coolly, "Are you saying you're enjoying it?"

"No!" Ryoma leaped up from the sofa, his eyes blazing. "It's…it's not….." Ryoma heaved a breath and walked towards him. "Monkey King, don't be more of an idiot than you are."

Keigo narrowed his eyes. "I don't think dodging the issue by insulting me would hardly be ideal at this time—"

"Shut up." Ryoma doffed his shirt halfway and stood in front of him. Keigo glared at the foreign, thin torso littered with the red marks. "Look closely," Ryoma commanded, and Keigo almost snapped again.

"I don't know what point you're trying to prove—" This time he craned forward, and faltered his voice. He placed a finger on the marks again, this time comprehended them fully.

"Stamp ink," he said dumbly. Faded stamp ink.

He looked up to meet Ryoma's eyes and scowl. "The ink wouldn't wash out yesterday," he grumbled, "Ryoga wanted to have a bit of fun."

"On my account?" Keigo couldn't help but ask. Ryoma rolled his eyes.

"Yeah, for your account. What do you think? It worked too," he added, although he still looked miffed about it. "Fell for it hook and sinker."

Keigo frowned. "That wasn't funny."

"No," Ryoma agreed dryly. "As if I would engage in some weird shit like that."

"You wouldn't." _So why would he?_ Keigo asked silently. Ryoma shrugged.

"I wouldn't. But…Ryoga's weird." Ryoma sighed. He looked haggled. "There's a reason why I didn't want to coming over yesterday, monkey king. Fucking listen to me sometimes."

"I'm sorry," Keigo said, somewhat dutifully. It was his fault, he supposed. Ryoma blinked before offering him a smirk.

"Ryoga really doesn't like you," he said, "Just saying."

"I'm positively frightened," Keigo countered dryly, and Ryoma laughed. Unfortunately, Keigo was half-serious. Ryoga had known his status even before he introduced himself as the Atobe name, before meeting his eyes flatly. Eyes that were akin to Ryoma's: hazel and sharp, and immediately they dismissed him.

That should say something about him, nothing Keigo deemed positive.

/

What Keigo hadn't been expecting was Ryoga to pop up in his university the next day.

"Well, if this isn't Atobe!" Ryoga exclaimed, as if he was just passing by and Keigo just happened to come out of his last class, "Great coincidence, isn't it?"

Keigo just gave him a look, and curled up his lips a second later. "I suppose," he affirmed coolly, "Is there something you want?"

Ryoga threw back his head and laughed. It was somehow strange how alike he resembled Ryoma, with the same hair color and the same mocking eyes. But Ryoma had yet to acquire that cold look, and his height would never tower over like Ryoga. If anything, Ryoga looked jaded all over, as if he knew something that the rest of the world didn't. Keigo didn't like him at all.

"So formal, aren't we?" Ryoga chuckled, and he stuffed his hands into his jeans. "Maybe a chat or two. Nice car, by the way," he added, as he nodded towards his waiting chauffeur, "But I have a car of my own. Why don't you get in and send your driver on his way?"

Keigo frowned. He just didn't get into stranger's cars and drove around, but before he could retort something clever and polite at the same time, Ryoga beat him to it. "It's about chibisuke," he said, "And besides, I have a Ferrari. You can't be ashamed to ride in that, can you?"

No, Keigo really couldn't argue with that.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N:Sooooo not a two-part piece after all...

/

Sometimes, Ryoga thinks his life is surreal in many ways.

Here he is, sitting in front of yet another (soon-to-be) businessman, talking about his brother (or at least trying to) while trying to assess him. Ryoma doesn't know these things, he thinks. It's his duty, although Ryoma would deny otherwise. It is his duty as an older sibling, to look after the younger boy who is all too gullible.

"Nice place, yeah?" he drawls, and the Atobe boy gives him a cold look but his smile is very pleasant and deceiving.

"Of course," Atobe replies, and Ryoga knows the words jammed inside the young heir's throat: _but I've seen better and dined with better people; you are scum to me._

He wonders, briefly, if Ryoma was even worth that much to Atobe, for the boy to reserve such harsh bites. (But that was what led him here, to find out, wasn't it?)

He smiles and Atobe does not drop his own. They order.

/

He meets Ryoma in many years and harasses him, all in which the boy takes with good humor. At least, he does until Atobe leaves. It is then Ryoma frowns and Ryoga tries to compensate with dinner and jokes and laughter. They go out, after Atobe leaves after their disastrous first encounter with each other.

Ryoma no longer smiles at every little thing he does. The Ryoma he meets again is a lanky boy with hard eyes and a jeering mouth, but mostly, he looks unhappy to see him when they are alone.

"Chibisuke," he chirps, but the lilt dies in his throat. They are too old for this, he knows, unsure, but he was a creature of habit, and the nickname does not die out so easily. "Chibisuke, you look old now." He laughs a little. "Do you still like oranges, though? They have some really good tarts here." He does a wag of an eyebrow, to see if his younger brother would get the double meaning.

Hazel eyes and a thin mouth and a sneer. "What," his little brother (blood relations, rival, stranger), "Are you doing here?"

"I live here now," he says, and laughs. "Didn't oyagi say anything to you? I just moved back to Tokyo and here to stay." He spots the waiter and signals her with a smile and she blushes, hurrying over.

Ryoma says, "He's not your dad." Coldly.

"Are you monopolizing now?" This is surreal, he thinks, waving his hand at Ryoma before he can open his bratty mouth again, and strangely, Ryoma obeys and closes his mouth, although his eyes, they grow colder by each and every word he speaks and every sound that consists a laugh. The waitress writes down coffee, milk, orange tart and lemon cake, and leaves, her blush never quite abating.

"I didn't think you loved your dad that much, but," he says, affably, resuming there conversation, "Old man would be pleased."

Ryoma looks at him. When they were young, such eyes sparkled with mirth and love, or perhaps he is romanticizing. It is so hard to remember a Ryoma who had smiled and laughed and blushed, a whole spectrum of emotions, when now, the young man sitting in front of him is still and dry. He does not think that he had contributed to this single-handedly—he refuses to believe it.

This Ryoma now opens his mouth, and his words are brittle and calm as his eyes are. "It's been a shitty week," he says now, "And you're not helping it. Why are you here?"

"Didn't your shitty week become better the moment you met me?"

"No," he says.

"Monosyllables, Chibisuke. I thought you'd be happier to see me." He doesn't lose his grin. Ryoma does not gain his. "Or at least, you were when that guy came around." Ryoma does not blush, not as he did when Atobe was there. He is pallid and angry.

"I'm not," Ryoma says evenly, "Why would I be?"

"I'm your brother!"  
"You're my…." Ryoma stops and does not continue.

He sighs. "I did love it when you were younger. So much cuter and more gullible."

It is then here that Ryoma does finally produce a face. He sneers and the sneer does not look pretty. "I did love it when I forgot about you."

He produces a smile and the tart and coffee arrives. "I'm not an easy face to forget," he says, and after a moment's thought, adds, "brother dear."

/

They eat. They eat, or Ryoma picks at his food and Ryoga jokes and leers. They go back to the house and Ryoma is about to head off to his room, but.

"Say, chibi," he drawls, and he catches Ryoma by the arm and twists him around. Ryoma snarls and tries to shrug him off, but he is stronger than that, more prepared. "Say chibi, so why was he here?" And, in case Ryoma would deny everything and pretend to play stupid, he adds, "The Atobe guy. He's a huge hotshot. When did you like hotshots, chibisuke?"

Ryoma continues to glare at him., but he, in turn, continues to smile at him, his grip increasingly insistent.

"How do you even know who he is anyway?" Ryoma finally bites out.

"Famous name, famous face." Ryoga hums and tilts his head. "Surprised that you think I'm that dumb, chibi. He's the guy whose going to rule the Japan stocks someday."

"You'd know all about hotshots yourself," Ryoma says. It's the dismissal of the younger boy he doesn't like, Ryoga thought, looking into older eyes, dimming shadows. It's the jabbing, it's the mouth, it's the eyes. Ryoga likes to think he's above everything, including his brother.

"Don't be cruel, Ryoma," he says sweetly, and he drags the boy into the hallway. Ryoma follows along somewhat half heartedly until Ryoga opens a cabinet and takes out a seal and stamp ink. "What are you doing?" Ryoma asks, suspicious.

Ryoga hums and plasters red ink onto the seal, takes out some paper for good measure, stamps his carved seal. "Told you I'm living in Japan now," he says, and wags the seal stamp in front of the boy, "Officially, oyaji made me his son. So I'm going to the city hall tomorrow to clear up some stuff."

"Good for you," Ryoma mutters, and tries to twist free again. Ryoga presses down onto his grip and Ryoma winces. He smiles.

"Don't struggle so, brother," he says. He dabs more red stamp ink, fakes a dip onto the paper. At the last moment he turns to Ryoma and imprints a mark onto the boy's exposed neck.

Ryoma snarls immediately, and tries to back off, but Ryoga is prepared for that.

"The fuck!" Ryoma snaps, and his other free hand clasps over the red mark. Ryoga laughs.

"Chibi, let me look," he says, and he yanks Ryoma's hand away from the damage. The ink had blurred and mashed with the skin surface; blurred and pale, it almost looked like a mark.

"It looks like a hickey, chibi," he says cheerfully. "I wonder what Atobe would say to that."

Seal inks don't come off easy, he thought, almost giddily. He pounds his seal onto the ink base again and waggles it in front of an aggravated Ryoma.

"What do you think Atobe would say to that?"

"He'll think you a sick bastard," Ryoma says.

"He already does, though." Ryoga laughs and mock-attempts to press another mark onto the boy; this time Ryoma dodges.

"He already does," Ryoma agrees warily. The skin where Ryoga is gripping Ryoma's arm is turning an angry red. It will bruise tomorrow, Ryoga thinks, with little regret.

Ryoma studies him. Ryoga knows this, because Ryoma's eyes are hard to miss: they penetrate people, with emotions and variables, something Ryoga loved as a child and something he is ambivalent about as he is older. There are things that he does not want the younger man to know, and there are those hazel eyes, pondering and wondering.

"Why are you doing this?" Ryoma finally asks, his voice flat. He is hardly struggling anymore now. "Why now? You don't care and you never did."

He wants to say: _that's not true, that has never been true, if I ever cared about anyone it has always been you._ He can't say such words when he doubts them himself, many times a day; he cannot swear words that he wants to cherish. He does not what Ryoma to be disappointed in a future that he cannot promise. Their bond is fragile and breakable.

"You're right," so he says instead; he grins at the boy and he makes sure his smile is disinterested and sharp, as dismissive as Ryoma had been, "Smart as ever chibi." He shrugs and yanks Ryoma closer; Ryoma comes, docile and still, his eyes hard and angry again. "It's just fun, you know. You make life a little less boring. Also." He stops and lifts the hem of Ryoma's faded shirt; Ryoma makes a face but doesn't put up a fight (it disappoints him for some reason; he would have preferred the struggle and the yelps instead of the resigned disgust on the boy's face). "Also, you're dating an heir-to-be. What's there not to care about?"

"You're repulsive," Ryoma says, in the same flat monotone voice. Ryoga's heart stops and he can't remember to breathe. He composed himself, of course, and his next imprint is harder, near the boy's hollowed hips, his seal bright red and his name apparent. He roughly rubs the ink and the name blurs into another pink glob.

"I know," he manages, and his smile is still plastered. "Don't wash yourself tonight, chibi. I wonder how Atobe'd react?"

Ryoma meets his eyes and his silence is a barren black.


End file.
